


Coup de Grace

by Hannibalsimago



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Angst, M/M, Mentions of Jack Crawford - Freeform, Ravage Anthology, Treachery, mentions of Bedelia Du Maurier
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-03
Updated: 2021-01-03
Packaged: 2021-03-13 23:26:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,968
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28536600
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hannibalsimago/pseuds/Hannibalsimago
Summary: Alone in his cell and plagued by ghosts, Hannibal ruminates on the nature of treachery.This piece was written for the "RAVAGE - An Infernal Hannibal Anthology."  My Circle of Hell was Treachery.It was an honor and a privilege to be included. Thank you to @LoveCrimeBooks for the opportunity.
Relationships: Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter
Comments: 4
Kudos: 23
Collections: RAVAGE - An Infernal Hannibal Anthology





	Coup de Grace

He observes silently as he has for the last few hours, as the toilet is dismantled and taken out of his cell; the desk, his drawings, his books, all gone. Before one of the guards can undo his buckles, Alana orders, “Stop. Just leave him for now. I need your help in D wing. You can come down here after.”

Hannibal watches her leave the cell last and makes sure to give her the very special smile that he wore after their lovemaking and preens inside as she shudders. The door is swiftly closed as if he were free, a ferocious predator running down a kill.  _ ‘As if I would do it here,’  _ he thinks disdainfully. 

He feels a whisper of air across his face. He has no need of Virgil. He has his own personal ghosts. Suddenly, a persistent fear grips him.  _ ‘Perhaps it’s Mischa. Come to gloat?’  _ He hopes not; the yūrei of Mischa is not something he wishes to see. He shudders as he remembers the ghost stories told to him by Lady Murasaki. He knows a yūrei can bridge the gap back to the physical world because of unresolved emotional conflict. He’s been haunted by Mischa ever since her death. And now Abigail’s shade has joined her in gnawing at him.

He slows his breathing and steps into his mind palace. The temperature drops in the dark cell as the lights are suddenly switched off. Or maybe it’s all in his mind? After all, everything started in ice, all those decades ago.

He smiles again, thinking of ice, so beautiful and deadly like that which sank the Titanic. ‘ _ If he were smarter, he would have run. After all, I gave him a clue _ ,’ he muses. Sogliato, a hasty death, but satisfying. He recalls the sound as the ice pick pierced his skull, the feel of it, like punching into a ripe melon. Technically, Hannibal was innocent; it hadn’t even been his kill. That honor went to Bedelia.

He thinks of Dante, of the fate accorded those that betray their guests. _‘Their souls descend immediately to Hell and their living bodies are possessed by demons on earth. Such a fate for Bedelia then. Her body would be depicted as being frozen, lying horizontal, buried in the ice. Only her face visible, with her tears freezing her eyes shut. Poetic justice for one who only wanted to observe,’_ muses Hannibal. Later, he will sketch it in pencil when they return him his drawing table and acid-free paper. He couldn’t fault Sogliato’s death, a quick and almost delicate end for such an odious man. His death held only one virtue: its exceedingly apt presentation, a perfect lesson to drive home the concept of participation. 

_‘Participation_.’ How he longs for it, aches for it, aches for _Will_. He gave up everything to keep him. He remembers that night, remembers what he said about freedom and basement cells and here he is.

_ ‘How much of a fool does that make me _ ?’ 

It was an anomaly, completely different from his usual patterns. Out of all of them, all of his kills, only Will is marked. Marked by being alive: heart pumping, lungs breathing, blood circulating, in addition to his intimate scar. If it had been anyone else who betrayed him, they would be dead. No question about it. 

Since the very beginning, Hannibal had acted out of ruthless expediency or deadly purpose, avenging Mischa and extracting justice. 

‘ _ Like the God of the old testament. _ ’ He smiles at that. ‘ _ I am more benevolent than that so-called entity could ever be _ .’ If there was anyone to hear his chuckle, their blood would freeze solid. 

“I happened,” he whispers to the empty cell. 

He recalls feeling exultant, radiant, like a flaming comet streaking across the sky when he created his tableaus. Nothing as mundane as killing; he created. And weren’t blood sacrifices rightly given to gods? He only took what he was owed. If he was like unto a celestial vision in the heavens, then down below, his fodder, his prey cowered at the sight, unwilling to see the beauty and wonder, only bleating in their terror.

Until Will Graham.

Love and treachery. 

“Before Will and after Will,” he broods. 

Before Will Graham, both concepts were largely abstract, known but not felt. The former, love, was not known since his distant past. It’s origin? A tiny, ice-cold hand clutched in his, a lisping high-pitched voice singing out of tune but nonetheless sweeter for it. The latter, never. Inconceivable. After all, treachery implied trust. Until Will Graham, he had only trusted himself. 

A revelation: even a god can be known and admired. To step out of the shadows willingly and be  _ seen _ had been intoxicating, life-altering. It was undreamt of, something unimaginable. To crown it with a family, after so long, had been exhilarating. He remembers soft-spoken conversations he had with Mischa’s ghost before the fireplace in his Baltimore home, the whisper of a touch of her hand cupping his cheek tenderly, approving of all of his actions.

Conversations with Will flicker across his mind; leading Hannibal to make changes in his mind palace, adding new rooms and constructing new passages. The words were engraved on a large wooden door in room that houses an imago of Will. “We are just alike. You're as alone as I am. And we're both alone without each other.” He recalls when Will spoke those words to him. How he shivered with delight, inordinately pleased with the profiler. Other connections, conversations surface, how that knowledge gave Will the capacity to deceive, and for Hannibal to respond in kind. 

Close on the heels of that came the treachery. When he discovered it, he felt gutted, his insides hollow, a silent banshee wail ringing through all the rooms of his memory palace, no safe place left. A god scorned. For a very long minute, Hannibal was back in the Lithuanian forest, freezing, mute, heartsore and very much  _ alone _ .

Like an old-testament god, Hannibal had taken the “eye for an eye” principle to heart. But not before giving Will a chance to confess during their conversation at the dinner table, speaking of sacrificial lambs and forgiveness. He recalls how Will declined his offer to run away, his insistence on justice and truth. If he were a different sort of man, he could have wept at the toast he made afterwards. But he was not and did not.

There is so much he recalls. 

Even some things which had never happened.

_____________________ 

After Will had left, Hannibal sat before the fireplace, looking at the Primavera. Before he could draw another breath, the  _ yūrei _ appeared. She was tender tonight, not horrifying.  _ “I didn’t call you, Mischa.” _

_ “Labas, Hanni.” _

Hannibal smiled grimly. He would only tolerate the diminutive from Mischa, no one else.

_ “Labas, my dearest. I won’t ask how you are.” _

_ “I am as I always am, broli mano, unchanging. That’s the nature of ghosts. You, however, are not as you always are.” _

He sighed, setting the sketchbook aside.

_ “You may hide from others or yourself. You cannot hide from me. I am always with you.” _

_ “I told him, gerbiami vienas. I asked him to come away with me. I told him I forgave him. He refused my forgiveness, refused to admit the scheme with Jack. He wanted truth and justice. Not me.” _

_ “That last bit is not true, brother. You saw his face, his eyes. He has not yet become. Yet he cares.” _

_ “Not enough, Mischa.” _

_ “You know how long it took you to become. You had missteps, difficulties, doubts, and fears. Yes, even you, Hanni. However much you think yourself above them, the rabble, you did not become what you are overnight. Yet you expect more of him,” she chides. _

_ “He betrayed me!” _

_ “That is no argument, Hanni. Your deceit was first, and you responded in kind when he retaliated and tried to kill you. You sound like a spoiled brat, which doesn’t become you. But you are forgetting something.” _

Hannibal sat on the bench, looking anywhere but at his sister, and waited. 

_ “There are ways to prove your point without permanently taking away Will Graham’s agency in the world, broli mano. You are clever, far cleverer than I.” _

She saw the truth of him. She always had. He sighed, felt her arms around him, embracing him and was calmed. Hannibal took her hand in his and kissed her on the forehead.  _ “Ačiū, gerbiami vienas. Myliu tave, Mischa.” _

He felt the whisper of a hand on his cheek as she murmured,  _ “Myliu tave, Hanni. I can tell by the sparkle in your eyes you have an idea.” _

And with that, she was gone. Hannibal rose to bank the fire and clean up. He made a note to stop and get more stationary. He had an invitation to write.

__________________________________________

The light flickers on, and Hannibal hisses in surprise, startled out of his reverie. He hears the key in the lock and wonders which cretin they sent to loose him. Perhaps some fresh meat for dinner, a nice bit of cheek or tongue? 

He hears an incongruous sound, a knock. “Dr. Lecter?” An older black man comes into the room. His accent is southern, and his inflection gentlemanly. He smells wary, as if he knows he is in the room with a predator, and otherwise of bayberry and rum. “My name’s Barney. I’ll treat you with respect, and I expect the same in return. If you misbehave, that’s a whole ‘nother matter. I won’t deliberately hurt you but I can’t guarantee my courtesy in that situation. Understood?” 

“Yes, I understand perfectly, Barney. Thank you.”

“I’m undoing these now,” says Barney and proceeds to unbuckle the restraints. While he is working, another trustee places a bucket in the corner and leaves a rolled-up sleeping bag along with a pillow on the floor. There is a third guard armed with a Taser near Barney’s side, watching the unshackling with dead eyes.  _ ‘Watch that one, _ ’ thinks Hannibal and decides immediately to make a point never to provoke him or step out of line. 

“I’m going to take off the face restraint now, Dr. Lecter.”

“Of course, Barney. I’m always a gentleman.”

“Disingenuous Dr. Lecter,” Barney tsks. Hannibal smiles as if to say, ‘can’t blame a guy for trying.’ The orderly carefully takes off the mask, and Hannibal moves his jaw as his straightjacket is unbuckled, loosened, and finally removed. 

“Thank you Barney,” Hannibal moves his arms up and watches the guard with the dead eyes  _ twitch _ ever so carefully, ready and eager to commit legal mayhem. “Just doing some stretches. I was restrained for a long time.”

“Sorry about that, Dr. Lecter. It was out of my control.”

“No offense intended, Barney. Goodnight.”

“None taken. Goodnight, Dr. Lecter.” Barney and other guard take the trolley along with all the restraints and leave Hannibal to his solitary devices. 

_____________________________________________

Hannibal curls up in the sleeping bag, a thin pillow his only physical scrap of comfort. As he promised Will, he slips back into his mind palace. He opens the bronze doors to the Duomo and steps through, the cathedral soaring above him. There is more than one holy place within his mind, and Will knows how to reach every part of him. He lights a candle sits in a chair and waits.

That evening when everything hung on a knife-edge, when everything was possible, a near-perfect physical manifestation of Schrodinger's cat, alive and dead, suspended in the balance of a heartbeat.

He told himself that it was because Garrett Jacob Hobbs was too loud, shouting his command “See?” from the top of the Himalayas, deafening, blinding Will to all other possibilities. Hannibal’s patient, tender, meticulous, artistic, but above all, loving entreaty to Will, to  _ see _ him was overshadowed, drowned out by the clamor. He made a vow that at the end of the evening, no one would be blind;  _ everyone  _ would see him.

It started with the phone call from Will, his canary in the coal mine, a fluttering of breaths between them, alerting him to danger. Jack was next, a deadly ballet in the kitchen, ending with a near-fatal lesson to never assume, to move beyond what is in front of one’s eyes and  _ see _ . The outcome had been an uncertain thing. He knew Jack outweighed him and was stronger. But Jack was blind; a part of him still saw Hannibal as friend. He didn’t want to kill him, just incapacitate. Hannibal had no such misgivings and was able to be utterly savage. He won’t have the advantage of surprise next time.

Alana then. His beautiful, disbelieving Alana. His heart fluttered, and he gave her a kindness based on what they shared, years and years of it, asking her to be blind. She refused his gift and threw it back in his face. So he let her  _ see, _ and she fled upstairs. 

The guest of honor arrived then. Stood in his kitchen, eyes wide and disbelieving as he saw the daughter of his heart. He said, “You were supposed to leave!” Still not seeing. So Hannibal gave him a nudge, “ **_We_ ** couldn’t leave without you.” 

Oh then, the scales fell away, and he  _ saw _ . Hannibal saw the pain, the fear, and desire, his hurt at his betrayal, everything reflected in his face. He saw Will’s choice; saw his love, his nascent acceptance. There it was. The knife edge. Everything pivoted on that moment. Hannibal reached out with infinite tenderness, such gentleness, his broken heart reflected in his eyes. ‘ _ See? I have been here all along; a voice calling for you patiently, holding out my love in my two hands and just waiting for you.’ _

“Too little, too late,” a growled whisper in the darkness of his cell. 

Will knew nothing of Hannibal’s depths, how  _ starved _ he was, how empty, how alone. Enraged, vulnerable, yet still able to teach a lesson. Light glinted off a knife blade, and Hannibal sliced. His surgical mastery had never been so evident as Will slipped to the floor. Like a compassionate god, his mercy was as infinite as was his love.

Hannibal smiles at the thought. In the frigid enclosure, the physics lesson continues, speaking of shattered teacups coming together and then the acknowledgement of the betrayal. “I wanted to surprise you. And you...wanted to surprise me,” another murmur in the night. 

Back in his memory, Hannibal lashed out, “I let you in. I let you know me. I let you see me...A rare gift I've given you. But you didn't want it.”

Hannibal forgave him even as his heart was breaking while he shattered the teacup, her skin like porcelain, spilling blood everywhere. 

In the dark, he shakes his head, curling and pulling his knees toward him. If he’s going to remember, he should be truthful to himself. He didn’t shatter it; he ground it to dust under his heel.  _ ‘Abigail, oh my beautiful daughter,’  _ sighs Hannibal. It’s as close to a prayer as he could make. He allows himself the luxury of a few silent tears and takes comfort in their warmth on his chilled skin. 

He watches as she enters the Duomo, walks to where he was sitting, chooses a seat next to him, tucking her dress behind her knees (she dressed up for him), and takes his hand. The mark on her neck is a scarlet ribbon. It’s not dripping tonight. No horrors for him then, not yet. The  _ yūrei  _ has taught her much about the nature of hauntings, all his private terrors. He remembered seeing a waterfall of blood and shivered as she gripped his fingers tighter.

_ “I’m so sorry, Abigail, mano mažai danielius. I was so devastated and angry. All I wanted to do is make Will hurt as much as I did. It was my last kindness to you, quick at least. Do you forgive me yet?” _

_ “Of course, Hannibal. This way I can be with you both. I visit Will too.”  _

‘ _ But not in the way you visit me,’  _ he thinks to himself _. _

_ “I should have guessed. Be careful as you go, my murderous daughter. All my palace chambers are not lovely, light, and bright. In the vaults of our hearts, danger waits. There are holes in the floor of the mind. In truth, mine are more akin to crevasses.” _

_ “I will help you navigate those terrifying abysses with Mischa’s help. I met her today, and we had a good long talk. She explained a great deal, and I’m glad to be a companion for her also.” _

She rises and tenderly kisses his cheek, trailing a hand on his shoulder, squeezing it briefly before she follows the sound of a young girl’s laughter out of the cathedral.

__________________________________________________________

He had taken Bedelia as cover first and foremost. Then as a reaction, a ‘not Will.’ In her house and later on the plane, his insides felt like Dresden after it was firebombed; raw decimation, an agony down to his bones. Bedelia wasn’t passionate, far from it. Her detachment was something he thought he needed. She was terrified of her own darkness, of giving voice to it. She was fascinated to observe, most comfortable with lies, capitalizing on them later for her own gain. She was stupendous at passive-aggressive behavior, the orchestrator of his downfall; ultimately calling attention to him by going into the same shop and purchasing the same food every week. Her most obvious ploy that of sitting in front of the security cameras, silently begging the watchers to follow her, to save her, to find him. She betrayed him for the most banal of reasons. She was one of the sheep, masquerading as a wolf, likening herself to his bride. Outrageous hubris. She thought touching greatness conferred it upon her. It was an unforgivable betrayal, one that could not be tolerated. 

Italy had been a spectacular failure. Every time he looked at her, he imagined how Will would react, speak, and feel. He had replayed favorite conversations over and over again in his head. He thought the desire; the compulsion to be seen by Will Graham would kill him. It flashed along his dendrites, axioms, deep in his central nervous system, spreading like neuropathy. It certainly made him impulsive, just the tiniest bit less calculating. He remembered Will’s incarceration in Baltimore and the hour of loneliness each week at his session. This had been so much worse, a constant phantom pain. It was there when he went to bed. It was there when he awoke, unceasing, the necrosis of it going deeper. If he had been a lesser person, he might have tried to cut it out of himself. Everything he tried to do to quench it, soothe it, failed. He visited the Uffizi Gallery multiple times, obsessively sketching. Evenings were spent composing or drawing. Cooking even lost some of its savor. How could it not when his companion refused to share his meals, insisting on eating fodder? Even his speech at the Palazzo Capponi seemed to lack zest not just as a result of Sogliato’s baiting but primarily because Will was not there to witness it.

As for Will’s proxy, Mr. Dimmond, he left many things to be desired. It was only fitting that he wound up as a literal love letter. With Hannibal’s help, he became the most exquisite piece of poetry ever to be contributed to the fine arts, much better than any his insipid writing. He remembered pausing for breath in the middle of crushing Anthony’s ribs. A pity that Will hadn’t been in Italy to assist.

They would have had such  _ fun _ .

‘ _ It would be rapturous _ ,’ thinks Hannibal. 

He wouldn’t have had to have the conversation about the niceties of observing versus participation. Will would know without Hannibal having to say a word. He smiles to himself as he recalls creating his three-dimensional sonnet and wishes he could have been there to see Will’s face as he beheld it.

From one beauty to another, like a siren’s call. “If I saw you every day forever, Will, I would remember this time.” He felt like a sunflower following its namesake across the sky, across his world, reflecting its glory, basking in the warmth of his smile, and was content.

A moment of rapture before the final death. 

_ ‘Transcendent.’ _

Until Chiyoh intervened, causing Will to drop his forgiveness, a ballet of beauty delayed. He remembered what it felt like to have Will in his arms again. His heart and soul soared. 

The only way he could envision to keep that exultation was to fulfill the role of a supplicant and partake of his God. An intimate communion. “May this sacrifice be acceptable,” he murmurs into the night. Anyone listening will think he is at his prayers. And he is. 

He remembers the catechism of his youth, the call and response. “Take him, eat of him. It is his body which he gives up to you. Take this and drink from it. This is the chalice of his blood. His new and eternal covenant which is given to you alone. For your - our - absolute eternal forgiveness. Do this in memory of him. He gives his body up for you,” his reverence whispers in dark.

It was to have been their last supper, the three of them together. Jack was also responsible for Will’s fate. "Jack was the first to suggest getting inside your head." He spit the words out as he readied the bone saw.

The rightness of it, the way Will accepted,  _ participated, _ had shattered him to his core. It was the reason his hand shook slightly, momentarily overcome by the beauty before him. The bone saw skittered across Will’s forehead. An unforeseen reaction by Hannibal to the wonder before him. He should have known, anticipated that he would be dazzled by his beauty, by his mind. It was the reason Will still lived, a communion deferred. 

He knows why Bedelia voiced the idea to eat Will. It had been to secure her place at his side; as if she was worthy of being there. As usual, he forsook her obvious ploy and elevated the act to a sacrament. Only Will understood; his acceptance complete. 

There would be another sacrament, another covenant between the two of them. Of that, he is completely certain. Will might not be cognizant of it yet. It is already written, had been written.

“I see my end in my beginning, Bedelia. All of our endings can be found in our beginnings. History repeats itself, and we can't escape it,” explains Hannibal as he drifts down to sleep.

  
______________________________________________________

His mind flits over their capture and subsequent transport to Muskrat Farm. The travesty of a sacred dinner. Verger only understood his own rapacious desires. The only rapturous thing was watching Will bite off a chunk from odious Cordell and spit it back immediately on his plate. Clearly not worth eating, let alone tasting, an affront to them both. In his mind palace, he beams with pride. 

His mind, flitting forward, picks up the thread at the point that he freed himself in the pigpen. Picking up a stray hammer, he slunk up to the first guard, quickly crushing his skull. He took his keys and made his way to the compound, killing as he went. He wore the clotted blood and gore as proudly as he did his most elegant suit. He relished smelling the iron tang from the viscous blood so similar to the way his kitchen smelled when he made czarnina.

Once inside, having retrieved a carving knife from the dining table ( _ so careless _ ), he discovered Verger, Cordell, and a drugged and bound profiler. After hamstringing Cordell and crushing his larynx, he had pulverized his hands with the hammer and peeled his face off. Will watched it all with glee in his eyes. He wished he had more time to savor Cordell’s death as he cut through his aorta, exsanguinating him efficiently. It was a better death than he deserved. 

After gifting Verger with Cordell’s face and leaving him to Alana and Margot, he remembers little except the final surreal walk in the snow back to Wolf Trap. What he does not recall is unimportant. What he does recall overshadows everything else. He had been so sure that this was Will’s  _ becoming _ . He was so sure of Will’s acceptance.

Will’s words eviscerating him,  _ ‘Even Steven,’  _ for the bloody events in the kitchen, so many months before. The words were written on his bones, his nerves, his muscles. He remembered Will’s flat, cold, dismissive voice, “I miss my dogs. I'm not going to miss you. I'm not going to find you. I'm not going to look for you. I don't want to know where you are or what you do. I don't want to think about you anymore.”   
  


Hannibal, ever a forgiving god when it came to the man sitting before him, responded, “You delight in wickedness and then berate yourself for the delight.”   
  


Another rejection as cold as the snow melting on Hannibal’s feet as he heard, “You delight. I tolerate.”   
  


One last time to teach, to offer the universe and all its glory, he had tried again, murmuring, “Tolerance is a fig leaf to hide your ravenous self from the world.”

The man he loved, still loves, will always love had replied, “I don't have your appetite. Good-bye, Hannibal.” 

From Will, he receive d the cruelest dismissal in his life, the first and only of its kind.  _ ‘ _ _ Well done, Will. You never miss your mark. An apex predator indeed,”  _ admired Hannibal as his eyes watered and threatened to overflow. He remembers pulling his dignity around him and walking to the front door and out into the cold. He then waited in the barn before delivering the coup de grâce in front of Jack and the rest of the FBI officers, looking only at Will.

All the indignities, the suffering, the disgrace, the banality of it all, he took for Will. Imprisoned in his ice, frozen in his mind palace, he became quiescent. They thought the monster had lost its fangs, was succumbing to old age. He was grateful for the basement cell. The constant cold temperature helped his hibernation. After all, once the grizzly bear emerges from its winter sleep, it’s ravenous. This was no different. 

When Dolarhyde overcame his shyness and reached out to him, like an acolyte seeking an ascetic, he saw the plans within plans. Dolarhyde said mentor, but his ultimate goal was obvious. Hannibal allowed it, fostered it only because he knew it would bring Will back to him. 

He had pulled out his fanciest stationery along with a piece of charcoal and wrote Will a letter.

"Dear Will, 

We have all found a new   
life, but our old lives hover in the   
shadows, like incipient madness.   
Soon enough, I fear Jack Crawford   
will come knocking. I would   
encourage you, as a friend, not to   
step back through the door he holds   
open. It's dark on the other side   
and madness is waiting..."

He had smiled. Not his best work. But it would do nicely. He waited while the ice thawed and dripped. Spring would be here soon.

_____________________________________

He wakes up and knows it is Christmas and his birthday rolled into one. Today, he will see Will Graham face to face. He sits in his mind palace waiting, a puddle of water under his feet, stretching across the tiled floor, down the nave. He hears the Baltimore oriole call and smells the fresh-turned earth after a rain. He exalts and remembers his herbs, running his fingers through the resinous stems of his Italian rosemary plant. He chops onions, peppers, tiny caper berries and grated lemon zest in his mind. 

His ghosts are cheerful today, picking up on his mood. Abigail and Mischa both flit by with warm smiles and the scent of night jasmine trailing behind them as they stop to murmur “See? He said you were conjoined. He is upstairs now. Can you hear his footsteps? He is on his way to you.” Abigail holds Mischa up to the island so she can see exactly what he is creating. She loves to watch his knife work. He steps to the sink to wash his hands and knife. He crosses to the stainless steel refrigerator, opens it, and pulls out a small bowl of raspberries. Carrying it over to the island, he places it in front of the girls and continues to prepare his mise en place. 

Smiling broadly, his fangs visible, the smile reaching his eyes, he watches as both of them eat the entire bowl, their faces and hands stained red with juice. “Ačiū Hanni.” “Thank you, Hannibal, for the treat,” their voices a sweet chorus. Both of them come around to his side of the island. He puts the measuring spoon down and picks up his sister. She hugs him and nuzzles his neck. “It’s nice to see you finally happy, Hannibal.” He kisses her forehead and sets her down before being engulfed by Abigail. “Will says ‘hello.’” Hannibal’s smile broadens, and he returns the hug. “We have to go. Your visitor will be here,” says Abigail. They run off out of the kitchen, past the altar, and go outside to play. He washes up before taking off his immaculate apron. Stepping around the island into the nave, he waits for his long-awaited companion, his heart singing an aria.  _ ‘I have an inkling of what is to come. I have no doubt we will be glorious.’ _

A thousand heartbeats later, he smells his aftershave, mixing with the incense and candles. He hears his footsteps coming nearer, across the mosaic floor, stopping in front of his cell. 

‘Hello, Dr. Lecter.”

‘Hello, Will.”

**Author's Note:**

> Notes: Lithuanian translation: 
> 
> Labas Hello
> 
> mano mažai danielius My little doe
> 
> Ačiū, gerbiami vienas. Myliu tave. Thank you, dear one. I love you.
> 
> broli mano Brother mine


End file.
